


The Long Road

by thewightknight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Grey Wardens, Intrigue, M/M, Orlais, The Game, lovers separated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4429061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jacques Caron, son of the legendary chevalier Patrice Caron, had never thought to be a Grey Warden, but when his life is shattered around him, letting Blackwall conscript him into the Grey Wardens offers him a chance to escape his fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Recruited

**Author's Note:**

> **AUTHOR NOTE:** THIS FIC IS NOT COMPLETE. I just closed it out after four chapters due to lack of readership. There didn't seem to be a point in continuing.
> 
> There is mention of a false accusation of attempted rape a couple of times in the story. It doesn't actually take place, and the accused is actually innocent, so I didn't use the archive tag, but I still don't want to trigger someone on accident, so here is a warning!
> 
> The Blackwall in this story is the original Grey Warden.

9:22 Dragon

Warden Blackwall was ready for a drink or three. Recruitment was always hard. He took them from their lives knowing he was sentencing them to death. Even if they’d survived the Joining, every single of the men and women he’d recruited over the years had had their lives cut short by the Taint. But it had to be done. Vigilance must be maintained.

It could be worse, he supposed. He was here in Val Royeaux with all its attractions, and yet he wasn’t having to rub elbows with the nobility, unlike the rest of his fellows. Even as political neutrals, Orlesian Wardens still had to play the Game sometimes. Their lands were a grant from the Empire, and with Empress Celene still new to her role, there were nobles who were angling to increase their holdings at the Wardens’ expense. With the Fourth Blight now four ages past, memory and gratitude both were scarce.

He’d hardly pushed his way into the common room of their inn when there was a frantic tugging at his tunic.

“You’re one of the Wardens, yes? You have to come. You have to recruit him. Tonight, before it’s too late!”

He looked down at the youth. Well-born from his accent, but in fighting trim and with rub marks on his clothes where armor would normally sit. He was the right age for a squire, and this close to the palace, probably a noble one. He sighed. The “him” had to be another victim of the Game.

“Alright, lad. Where is he?”

“In the palace dungeons.”

He let the boy drag him along, got the story out of him as they went. Young lovers and a disapproving family, it seemed. They’d been warned to stop seeing each other and hadn’t listened, of course. One lad was nobly born, related to the Empress in some fashion. The other lad was the orphaned son of a disgraced chevalier, making his way on his merit and skill, which, from what the boy described, were prodigious. 

“It’s Gustav’s cousin Yves is supposed to marry. So after his family found out they were still seeing each other, Gustav and his mates were supposed to rough Jacques up, but he took them all out. All five of them!” The boy glowed with pride. “But then Gustav claimed Jacques had tried to rape him and his friends had caught him and tried to intervene. They’ve stolen Yves away somewhere, and Jacques has no one to speak for him. Well, no one important enough to counteract Gustav’s family, at least,” the boy sneered. “We squires and our masters don’t count.” His expression turned bleak. “They’re not even going to give him a trial. He’s to be castrated and sent to the mines in the morning.”

This had all the earmarks of a royal mess, but if the lad was as capable as this boy said, it’d be worth it. He quickened his steps.

The boy left him before reaching the prison, saying he couldn’t be seen anywhere near the place. All of them had been ordered to stay away on pain of a whipping. There was some concern they might try to help this Jacques escape, it seemed. So, the lad was popular as well as skilled, if his peers were loyal enough that an escape attempt was a worry. More points in his favor.

The griffon on his armor got him through the door of the prison, along with a gruff “Conscription.” When he mentioned who he was looking for, though, the jailor paled.

“You don’t wanna be messing around with that one, messere,” the man whined. “Nobles got it in for ‘im.”

“All I care about is that the boy took out five opponents bare-handed. The Wardens need recruits like that.”

“But he tried to bugger another lad!” the man protested, whining intensifying.

“He can bugger all the darkspawn he wants when he’s in the Wardens. Take me to him,” Blackwall ordered. 

Muttering under his breath, the jailor led him to a cell at the end of the row. The boy in it didn’t look up as they approached, staring at the heavy manacles that circled his wrists. He was still a boy, had to be if he was a squire, but he looked like a man full-grown. His shoulders were wider than Blackwall’s already, even though from the looks of him he wasn’t through growing yet.

“’Ere he is, Warden. You really don’t want to be thinkin’ about conscriptin’ him, though. Those nobles will be pissed if you spoil their plans for ‘em.”

At these words, the lad finally looked up, anger in his eyes. Even bruised and bloodied, that was a face to make the ladies swoon. And the gents too, it seemed. Black hair, piercing eyes, an aquiline nose miraculously unbroken, strong cheekbones and jaw. 

Blackwall tuned the jailor’s complaints out. “Can you stand, lad?” His clothing was torn, and he couldn’t tell if the blood on it was his or his attackers’, but nothing looked broken. Of course they wouldn’t have wasted healing on him.

The lad rose with a clank of chain and Blackwall found himself staring at that nose. Should be on a marble statue somewhere. Maker, he was huge.

“So you took out five men?” He made the sentence a question, keeping emotion out of his voice.

“Boys,” the lad sneered.

“How badly did you hurt them?”

“None too badly. I figured that I would get in trouble if I did.” He snorted, raised his chained wrists. “That turned out well, as you can see.”

“Indeed.” So he’d disabled five opponents without seriously harming any of them. That spoke to his skill. Blackwall made his decision. This would probably hurt his comrades’ maneuverings in court, but it would be a crime against the Maker to let this lad moulder and die in some useless noble’s mine.

“So how about it, lad? Want to be a Warden?” The jailor started sputtering, yanking on Blackwall’s arm. He shook the man off. “There’s no guarantee you’ll survive the Joining, but at least if you die from it, you’ll still be a whole man when you do so.”

The lad didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I would be proud to join the Wardens.”

“Alright then. Open it up. He’s now a Warden recruit.”

He thought the jailor was going to refuse, but the man pulled out keys at last, opening the lock. He looked even more shocked when Blackwall ordered him to remove the chains as well.

“But he’ll run off if you don’t chain him up!” the man protested.

“How about it, lad. Are you going to run?”

“No, messere. You have my word.”

“The word of a buggering boy isn’t worth spit,” spat the jailor.

Anger flared again in the lad’s eyes, and his hands flexed. It was obvious he wanted to wrap them around the worm’s throat, Blackwall thought, but he restrained himself. “No, the word of a Caron.”

Something clicked in Blackwall’s brain. “You’re Patrice Caron’s son?” Chevalier Caron had been a legend, until the Game brought him down. He’d have rallied, everyone was certain, if he hadn’t fallen prey to a wasting disease a few months after his disgrace. He’d never heard the man had a son, but now that he’d made the connection he could see a resemblance. He was even more determined to take the lad away now. He should have kissed the boy that came to drag him away from the inn.

“What’m I goin’ to tell ‘em when they come for him in the mornin’?” Maker, did the man never stop whining?

“You tell them exactly what happened. This lad’s a Warden Recruit now!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Joubert heard the muted whisperings, the rustlings, in the squires’ quarters. It wouldn’t be Gustav and his mates, he knew. They wouldn’t bother to hide their noise if they’d come to trash Jacques belongings. That left one other option. He threw open the door and Olivier, Nicolas, and Anton jumped, guilt written over their faces. One had Jacques’ sword in his hand, one his shield, and the third a satchel that he’d been filling from Jacques’ trunk.

Maker preserve him from lads with wool between their ears, he thought, rubbing his eyes. Before he could begin to speak, though, Olivier piped up. “It’s not what it looks like, Master Joubert! We’re not helping him escape. He’s been conscripted by the Wardens. We were just going to sneak him a few of his things.”

“And how did the Wardens find out about him?” Joubert asked, and the three shuffled their feet, looking anywhere but at him. “I pray to the Maker you lot will stay as far away from Court as you can for the rest of your lives, boys, because you wouldn’t survive the first banquet. ‘ He held his hands out, and the boys handed their burdens over reluctantly. “Off with you, now.” As they filed out, shoulders slumped, he added, “So where are these Wardens staying, now?” Three faces split in grins, and Anton volunteered, “The Counselor Arms, Master!”

“Alright, get along.”

He watched them scamper away and realized he was smiling. It was a small smile, and sad, but a smile nonetheless. Slinging the shield over his shoulder, he shrugged. A drink certainly would help take away the taste this mess had left in his mouth. He made use of the back ways out of the squires’ quarters, knowing that it didn’t make any difference. Some servant in the pay of Gustav’s family would tell on him. But he owed it to Jacques, and to his father. And besides, this round hadn’t played out yet, and the Vauquelins had never acknowledged the lad’s popularity or the weight his father’s name still carried in certain circles.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Blackwall put the lad in his rooms, and had dinners sent up for them. At the rate at which he inhaled it, he hadn’t been fed while imprisoned. When he finished scraping the plate clean, Blackwall shoved his dinner over. Jacques made to protest, and Blackwall shushed him. “I’ll be heading down to the common room shortly. Eat.” He didn’t have to say it twice. If this was what his appetite was like now, it was going to be a sight to watch him eat after the Joining, Blackwall thought.

Jacques started yawning halfway through the second meal. When he was almost done, Blackwall stood. “Have a wash and tuck in, lad. We’ll see about finding you some clothes in the morning.” Some of Garam’s shirts might fit. The dwarf was the only one of them whose shoulders would match his. His pants looked to be in decent enough shape, thank goodness, because no one else in the party had legs that long, and he still had his boots. They’d have to stick him in chainmail until he stopped growing. 

Blackwall realized he was making plans for the lad’s future and forced himself to stop. He was usually better at this, keeping a distance until after the Joining. But even though Jacques had barely spoken since they’d left the prison, he found himself liking the lad. He heard water splash into the basin and turned to look as he closed the door, wincing at the sight of the bruises the shirt had hidden. From the way he’d been moving, it all seemed superficial, but he’d ask Taeros to look him over in the morning to be sure.

The common room was starting to fill up when he entered. The innkeeper had reserved a table in the corner for the Wardens’ use while they were staying here, and he had a tankard and pitcher in front of him almost before he could blink. There were some that still valued the Order, even after all this time.

Most of the patrons at this inn were well-to-do tradesmen and merchants, so the man that entered a candlemark later drew his notice instantly. Clad in well-worn leathers and chain, with a sword at his waist and a pack and shield on his back, he moved like a man who lived with a weapon in his hand. He scanned the room, and when his eyes fell on Blackwall he nodded and made his way over.

“You’re the Warden that took Squire Jacques?”

Blackwall raised an eyebrow at the man’s use of a title for the lad. “Word travels fast.”

“Not as fast as you think. I caught three of the other squires packing up his things, or I wouldn’t have known. Made some inquiries, and I know who’s on duty at the jail tonight. He’ll be too scared to send word to anyone, be counting on being off-shift before they come for Jacques tomorrow morning. Might even cut and run if he thinks too hard about it. A servant might mention to the Vauquelins that they saw me leave with his shield, but there’s a fete tonight, so again, they probably won’t hear of it until tomorrow. By then you Wardens should be able to put a few bugs in some ears.”

So the lad had another ally. Blackwall gestured, and the man pulled out a chair, let the pack and shield slide to the floor, unbelted the sword and propped it up against the pack. The barmaid had left a stack of tankards, and he poured one, sliding it over. The man took a deep drink. 

“Name’s Joubert. Weaponsmaster. I try to thunk some sense into the squires’ heads while I teach them their arms. I promised Jacques’ father I’d look after him when the man took ill. Done a piss poor job of both of those things, it seems.” He took another drink. 

When the man didn’t start speaking again, Blackwall asked, “Is he as good as I’ve heard?”

Joubert grimaced. “Better, likely. He’s the kind of pupil you might see if you lived three lifetimes. He favors these,” and he gestured to the sword and shield. ”They were his father’s, and he’s sentimental about them. But he’s better with a two-handed blade. He’ll cut through your darkspawn like they’re butter. And put him up on a charger with a lance and grown men will wet themselves. He’d have been a chevalier about which songs were written. Damn those Vauquelins.”

That was the second time Joubert had mentioned that name, and if his memory was correct that was the name of one of the nobles who were trying to annex a Warden outpost adjacent to their lands. Even if the lad was extraordinary, his gain wouldn’t offset the loss of that fortress.

“But they may have misplayed this round,” Joubert continued, to Blackwall’s surprise. “Empress Celene used to play with the other lad, Yves, when they were children and she’s still young enough that a forbidden romance might seem, well, romantic. And there’s been a battle behind the scenes shaping up, between important people looking to sponsor Jacques when he hit sixteen. These are people who remember the father and had high hopes for the son. If you play it right, they’ll cause havoc at court.”

So conscripting the lad wasn’t as much of a disaster as he’d thought when the conversation started. They finished the pitcher, and then another, and by the time Joubert left he had a list of names to pass along to the rest of the group. When the other Wardens filed in, he quickly brought them up to speed. 

Dasia, their Senior Warden for this trip, made a face at him when he finished. “You know this means I have to go back to Court tonight now.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he promised.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When he returned to his room, he found Jacques asleep on the floor in front of the banked fire, using his arm for a pillow, a blanket barely covering his huge frame. When he slid the bolt in place on the door, Jacques sat bolt upright, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Recognizing Blackwall, he relaxed, then stiffened again, eyes wide, when he saw what the other was carrying.

“Is that …?” he whispered. 

“You’ve got more friends than enemies, it seems.” He placed his burdens on the table. “Go back to sleep. They’ll still be here in the morning.” 

Jacques had already laid himself back down, eyelids drooping. As Blackwall watched, his breathing evened out again, and he didn’t stir again as the Warden stripped off his armor and slid into bed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jacques woke slowly the next morning, his mind processing his surroundings bit by bit. The floor was hard, but it and the blanket were clean, unlike anything in the cell they'd thrown him into. At some point in the night he’d acquired a pillow, which smelled of fresh herbs. The room was warm and still dark even though he was sure the sun had risen, the only light coming from the banked coals in the fireplace.

He lay there for some undetermined time, trying to process how his life had changed in so short a time. Two nights ago he’d gone to meet Yves in the stables and found Gustav and his friends waiting instead. Yves was gone, Gustav had said, spirited away by his family, to be held at some distant estate until the wedding, and he was due a world of hurt for the disgrace Jacques had brought on his cousin.

The rest was a blur, the fight, the accusations, the beatings from the guards, none of whom he recognized, and then the cell. He’d sat there, chained, for an entire day, ignored by the guards. They hadn’t even bothered to feed him, just left a bucket of water in the corner. Some court official had come to see him that evening, to pronounce a sentence which he was told would be carried out two mornings hence. His protestations and demands for a trial had been ignored and the man had left. He’d spent another night with the only dregs in the bucket for company, and then the next day Blackwall had appeared. And here he was now. Instead of a chevalier like his father, he was going to be a Grey Warden. He could live with that, he decided. Not that he had any choice.

Blackwall was still asleep, breathing heavy but not quite snoring. Not wanting to disturb the older man, he eased from laying to standing and stretched. The satchel that Blackwall had brought last night was still lying on the table. He almost didn’t dare to hope what might be in it. When he opened the flap, the first thing he saw was a jumbled mass of shirts. Lifting them out, he breathed a sigh of gratitude, for all three of his journals were there. Two were filled with his drawings and notes, his father and the half-remembered face of his mother, as well as every lesson his father had ever imparted. The third was only partially filled, but even more dear to him now. His fingers trembled as he traced his last drawing of Yves. He’d never gotten the smile quite right, and he didn’t suppose he ever would, now. 

With reluctance, he set the journal aside and rummaged around in the bottom of the satchel, and under the whetstone and the pouch with his drawing tools he found his last treasure, a smaller pouch containing his mother’s locket. Breathing a prayer of thanks, he touched it to his lips, then repacked everything, saving a shirt. The one he’d been wearing was fit only for rags now. 

Setting it aside for the moment, he went through a series of stretches. Two days in chains had left him sore and tight. He was proud that his breathing stayed even, despite his enforced inactivity. Although he was as quiet as he could be, he noticed Blackwall’s breathing change, and when he finished he saw the man had been watching him.

“Feeling better?” Jacques nodded. “Good. How does breakfast sound?” His stomach growled in response, and Blackwall grinned.

It was still early enough that the common room was almost empty. As they ate, Blackwall spoke. “We’ll be staying in Val Royeaux for another two to three days. It’s probably best if you stay in the room for most of that time. My comrades are working the court, but there’s no telling yet whether the tide will favor or drown us.”

There didn’t seem to be anything he could say to that, so Jacques just nodded. When they finished eating, Blackwall slid the room key across the table to him. “I’ve things that need to be done today. I’ll get lunch sent up.” And with that he was off, leaving Jacques blinking in bemusement at the key. He had given his word that he wouldn’t run, and he found it meant a great deal to him that Blackwall was trusting him to keep it.

The next two days passed in a blur. He ran through drills as much as he could in the cramped quarters of their room, working himself into exhaustion so his brain would be quiet. He ended up taking his meals in the room as well. It would be easy enough for the Vauquelins to find out where the Wardens were staying and he’d hate to be the cause of any damage to the inn if they came looking for trouble.

On the evening of the second day, however, Blackwall dragged him down to the common room for dinner. “We’ll be leaving in the morning. It’s about time you meet the rest of us before we hit the road,” he explained as they made their way down the stairs.

There were only five at the table, but they seemed to fill the whole room. Blackwall made introductions.

“This is Senior Warden Dasia.” A heavily tattooed woman gave him the nod. “Taeros you’ve met already.” The elf mage had examined him the first morning after his release. “Jarod and Brainne.” These were a human man and woman, completely opposite in appearance – he was thin and dark of hair and skin, she was short and blocky and so blonde her hair looked almost white. They had matching grins, though, wicked and sharp, as if the whole world were a private joke to them. “And Garam.” The dwarf raised his tankard in salute and took a deep draught.

It was a surreal evening. It reminded him of similar meals spent with his fellow squires, because the spirit of camaraderie was the same with these Wardens, but their unfamiliar faces and voices made him homesick. It was the first time he’d thought of this place being home, he realized, and now it was lost to him. They were all in a jolly mood, and he pieced together from their conversations that they’d been trying forestay the loss of several keeps and had ended up not only keeping their current holdings but had been given an additional grant. They were a tight-knit group, with many shared experiences, and he spent most of the evening listening at the outskirts of their conversation, grateful to finally retire at the end of the meal. 

Apprehension for what lay ahead kept him awake that night, and by the time Blackwall arose the next morning he was dressed and packed and ready to leave.

They were joined in the inn’s courtyard the next morning by three more, other recruits who lived in the city, and on the way out they stopped by a district jail. Blackwall entered, and came out shortly with two men with manacled wrists. They both squinted, holding their hands up to shade their eyes from the morning sun. Both looked as if they’d been in cells for some time. Jacques found himself wondering how long they’d been imprisoned, and if they’d been imprisoned for actual crimes or were victims such as himself.

The Wardens set as fast a pace as these two could manage, and they were much more fit than their appearance suggested. Val Royeaux fell away behind them and Jacques didn’t allow himself to look back. Aside from a few training exercises, he hadn’t left the city for two years and he breathed deeply, focusing on the fresh air.

There wasn’t much conversation between the recruits as they walked, but that night around the campfire introductions were made. Arrod was a smith. His forge had burned and he hadn’t had the gold to start anew. He wasn’t actually a recruit, they learned – his skills were needed, and the Wardens had offered to employ him. Tavia had been working with the city guard, and had caught Blackwall’s eye. There was an elf, who introduced himself as Cyran. When asked what he’d done previously, his response was a simple “Bard.” And then there were the two they’d picked up from prison. They were strangely cheerful, but he guessed they were as grateful to have escaped hanging as he was to have avoided his fate. 

“I’m Stokley, he’s Cleve. We were looking to get back a bit from this bad’n who’d been shorting his servants’ pay. Jennies had a tip this arse was s’pposed to be gone for his country place, but his wife fergot sommut so he sent one of his folks back and we got caught,” one of them explained.

“Jennies?” Jacques asked, confused.

The two thieves exchanged a look. “If’n you don’t know about the Jennies, we won’t be the ones to tell,” Cleve replied.

They didn’t realize Brainne had been listening until she laughed. “It’s not a great dark secret, boyo. The Red Jennies are a network, is all. They pass along information and stick it to nobles whenever they get a chance. Simple enough.”

“Oh, fine now, take all the myst’ry out of it, why dontcha?” Cleve’s tone was disgruntled, but he was grinning. Brainne winked at him, and all three of them laughed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After that first day, Garam started to put each of the recruits through their paces when they made camp. Tavia was solid, if a bit slow, but once she planted herself it took an inordinate amount of effort to move her. Cyran flowed like water, never exactly where you expected him to be. The two thieves were rough and tumble, with no real technique, but that made them all the harder to hit. The dwarf found himself grinning after each of their bouts. And then there was Jacques. The boy tumbled him on his ass the first time they sparred. That hadn’t happened in years. He couldn’t get a touch on him either, no matter what he tried. Garam switched up, running him through every weapon he could get his hands on, always with the same result. Upon questioning, the boy admitted that his father had put a wooden sword in his hand almost before he learned to crawl.

After the first few days, he started pairing them up against each other, and noticed that Jacques was a good teacher too. As skilled and well-favored as he was, it would have been easy for resentment to form among the other recruits, but he had an easy way about him, an open friendliness with a dry humor that had you chuckling before you realized he’d said something amusing. The only ones that gave him any trouble at all during practices were Cleve and Stokley, again because of their raw unpredictability. One evening, Cleve quite literally threw himself between Jacques’ legs, wrapping himself around one of them, causing Jacques to have to drag him around while he fended off Stokley’s attacks. The boy started laughing when Cleve mimed biting his knee, snarling like a rabid dog, and they all got to witness a miracle. Stokley penetrated his guard and scored a hit on his shoulder.

Cleve still clung to Jacques leg, switching from rabid dog to kicked puppy, staring up at Jacques with big eyes when he tried to shake him off again. Jacques burst out into laughter again, and ruffled the thief’s hair. “Who’s a good Cleve?” he asked, which set both the thieves off too. 

When the laughter died down and Cleve finally unwound himself, Jacques said, “You do realize if you tried that for real, you’d be dead?”

Cleve shrugged, gave a lopsided grin. “I’m already dead. Jest hasn’t caught up wi’ me yet.”

Stokley chimed in. “Yep. We shoulda been hanged by now. This,” and he gestured, “this ‘ere’s gravy.”

Garam saw their words hit home. All the Wardens knew the recruits’ histories, Jacques’ especially because of the politics it had involved, but a recruit’s reason for coming to the Wardens was their own business, and while Tavia and two thieves had shared their stories with the group, both Cyran and Jacques had remained silent. The thieves had no idea of what he’d escaped, no idea how their words affected him. He nodded, gave them each a smile, then started making recommendations and running them through drills. If the both of them survived, they’d make a formidable team.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Their sixth night out they camped in the ruins of an old manor. The walls had crumbled but the ceiling was mostly intact, and it was surrounded by an overgrown orchard that yielded some early fruit, crisp tart apples. Fresh fruit was a novelty to their two thieves, and they gave themselves belly aches, stuffing themselves with the bounty.

Brainne popped up beside Blackwall after dinner. He was grateful for the distraction. Shaving was hard on the road, and his face had reached the itchy stage. 

“There’s something you should see,” she murmured, not drawing the attention of the others. She led him through the trees to the edge of the orchard. The manor was built onto the top of a slight rise, and from here the view was spectacular. She pointed, and he saw several figures on horseback crossing the fields below, still miles away. 

“Company.” They were riding their horses hard.

“Do you think they’re coming after our lad?”

“No, I think they’re chasing the one in front.”

She was right. The rider of the lead horse was urging it on, and kept looking back.

“What do you think it is? Thief? Bard?”

Brainne pursed her lips. “If we were betting, I’d say it’s Jacques’ lover.”

His spyglass was in his pack, but it did look like the pursuers were wearing some kind of livery.

“Maker’s breath, what are we going to do if he makes it to us?”

“He’s not going to make it. His horse is near blown,” Brainne predicted, and almost before she finished speaking the lead horse stumbled. Its rider had been looking behind again and wasn’t prepared. As they watched, he lost his seat, tumbling from the horse. He landed well, rolling and coming up in a crouch, but his horse shied when he tried to remount, and his pursuers had nearly caught up with him now. 

“He’s not going to go quietly,” Brainne observed, as he drew two short swords. His pursuers started circling, and he moved constantly, never leaving one of them at his back for more than a few seconds. One got too close and he slashed. The horse reared and he made a break through the circle, running directly under the startled horse’s belly. As they watched, two of his pursuers unfurled a net. It took longer than expected, but the conclusion was sadly forgone. He was entangled in the net and brought down, stripped of his weapons and bundled up like a bale of hay. His pursuers caught his horse, slung him over the saddle and led him back the way they’d come.

“Best not say anything. We don’t know for sure what the story was, and if we speculate, it’ll be painful for the lad.”

Brainne nodded in agreement and they returned to the fire.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They had to detour several days out of their way to find darkspawn, leaving the road and venturing into the marshes, so the recruits could collect blood for their joining. All of them survived. Of the group, Cyran seemed the most shaken by the encounter.

When they passed through Ghislain, all the Wardens quickened their steps. It was only two more hours to home. 

As soon as they came in sight of the gates, they were greeted by a cheer. They passed straight through the gates and herded the recruits into the main hall of the keep. Constable Trent joined them soon after. For the first time Blackwall noticed the grey at Trent’s temples. When had that appeared, he wondered? He’d be going to his calling soon. That was a sobering thought, considering what lay ahead for those he’d brought with him.

The recruits were surprised, as usual, when they proceeded with the Joining immediately upon arrival, but it was best to get it over with.

As Trent performed the ritual and they said the words, Blackwall found he’d crossed his fingers behind his back. They wouldn’t all survive. They never did. But he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. 

Tavia went first. She made it. Stokley was next. He survived as well. Cleve … Cleve didn’t make it. Neither did Cyran. He took a deep breath as Jacques took the draught and fell, held it until his vision blurred. Trent checked his pulse, and nodded, and he let it go, let himself start breathing again. Three out of five. It could have been worse.

He took one end of Jacques’ stretcher as they carried him from the hall. When he woke up tomorrow, his new life would start in earnest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Jacques woke suddenly in the middle of the night. His head was pounding and his stomach clenched in knots. There was a whisper in the back of his head for a moment, and then it was gone. He had faint memories of a strange dream, but the details evaporated as soon as his eyes opened.

He’d survived the Joining. He’d beaten them. He was a Warden now. And he’d most likely never see Yves again. Finally, he let the tears come.


	2. Promoted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over the past eight and a half years, Jacques had made a home among the Wardens. He was accepted and respected, and had come to peace with the turns his life had taken. He only had one real complaint, and nothing would ever change that.

9:30 Dragon

The Fifth Blight was upon them, according to the reports Commander Clarel had received from Duncan in Ferelden. King Cailan had officially requested their assistance in dealing with the darkspawn that were flooding the Korcari Wilds, and the Orlesian Wardens were mobilizing. 

Now twenty-four and a senior Warden, Jacques Caron was part of the vanguard. The Wardens had secured him a mount that would bear his giant frame, one worthy of the Chevalier he might have become. The stallion had some long pedigreed name, but as soon as it arrived, the grooms had dubbed him Tiny and the nickname stuck. The two of them dwarfed the remainder of their companions, and he took their quips with good nature.

“Hey, Jacques!” Stokley cried out from the rear of the line.

“Weather’s still fine up here. Not raining yet!” he called back without turning.

“I think you caught a cloud on your helmet!” was the retort.

They were all in high spirits, and all feeling somewhat guilty, considering the cause. A Blight was nothing to cheer over, but after hundreds of years the Wardens would be fulfilling their true purpose again.

Over the past eight and a half years, Jacques had made a home among the Wardens. He was accepted and respected, and had come to peace with the turns his life had taken. He only had one real complaint, and nothing would ever change that. He and Yves snuck a handful of letters to each other over the years, and had managed to meet in person once. Their meeting had been interrupted by assassins, and although they’d dealt with them handily, the message had been received. They’d never attempted a second meeting.

Their passage was swift, the horses eating up the miles, and they reached the border in record time, beating the compliment of chevaliers that they were to join up with. Once they arrived, they found their haste had been in vain. The Ferelden side of the border was in chaos, and it took several days before anyone would acknowledge their presence. Once contact was finally made, they were shocked to hear that King Cailan had been killed in a battle with the darkspawn at Ostagar, and Teryn Loghain, acting as regent, had sent a message that they were not to be allowed to cross the border.

Jacques tried, but none of his charm or diplomacy would budge the man, and so they turned back, making camp within sight of the border outpost. A messenger was dispatched, and they settled in to wait.

“Th’Empress is gonna be mad as a wet cat when she hears ‘bout this,” Stokley muttered as they pitched their tents. He’d attached himself to Jacques shortly after their Joining and Cleve’s death, and Jacques didn’t think he could’ve shake the man loose if he wanted to try. They were an unlikely pair, the giant not-quite-knight and the scrappy commoner thief, but they’d become close as brothers over the years.

“I can see how they would still be suspicious of Orlais even now, but to deny us entry? That’s sheer folly,” Jacques agreed. “Besides, they should know we are outside of politics. King Maric recognized that, and he spent years fighting during the Rebellion.”

“Stubborn doglords,” one of the other Wardens complained. 

“That’s rich, coming from a Marcher, Taya,” Jacques replied. There was a round of laughter laughed as Taya bit her thumb at him. 

That night, after consulting with Jacques, Warden Riordan slipped away, meaning to sneak across the border and scout about. He returned several days later, and his news was not good.

“Loghain is blaming King Cailan’s death on the Wardens, saying they urged him to fight on the front lines. He’s put a bounty on any surviving Wardens, naming them traitors to the crown, although it’s said they all died with the King at Ostagar. He’s denying that this is a Blight, and spread it about that we’re the spearhead of a new invasion, that Orlais will try to take advantage of the darkspawn attacks to seize control of Ferelden again.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They received their orders from Commander Clarel a week later. With the Empress’ blessing, they were to take up residence in Jader and patrol the area, checking for darkspawn incursions over the border. And that’s where they spent most of the next year. Riordan continued to make periodic forays into Ferelden, keeping them informed of the Blight’s progression. They’d have dismissed his news as wild rumor if it had come through any other means, it was so incredible. Two Wardens had survived Ostagar. One was the bastard half-brother of the Ferelden king, and the other the daughter of the dwarven king. Between the two of them, they were single-handedly uniting the elves, dwarves, and mages of Ferelden, while fighting a civil war and the darkspawn simultaneously.

It seemed things were coming to a head and Riordan prepared for another trip, his fourth or fifth now, Jacques had lost track. Two weeks passed, and then a month, and then two, and they came to accept that he would not return.

Tempers grew short as the weeks passed. The Wardens had just returned to Jader after tracking down a band of darkspawn that had made it through the mountains. There had been an ogre, the first that any of them had ever seen, as well as two emissaries. When they’d finally cornered the beasts, the battle had been brutal. Two of their number had died, and two more were seriously wounded. Stokley was one of the two. The ogre had backhanded him, and he had five broken ribs and a cracked skull. The healers were optimistic about his recovery, but Jacques was still worried. And then they’d been caught in a downpour on their way back to Jader, which at least had washed the blood and gore from their armor, but they were all chilled to the bone when they arrived at their inn.

They were toasting their fallen comrades in the tavern when a group burst into the room, full of noise and bluster. Jacques froze with his tankard halfway to his mouth. Even after all this time, he still recognized one of them instantly.

Gustav bullied a group of tradesmen from their table and he and his fellows immediately started harassing the barmaids, lifting their skirts and grabbing for their breasts. It was obvious this wasn’t their first stop. They were all drunk already, and spoiling for trouble to boot. 

Jacques scanned the room, but he knew even before looking that there was no way he could leave without catching Gustav’s notice. Their table was on the opposite side of the room from the stairs. Their party stood out, so staying still in the corner wouldn’t keep him from recognition. Resigned, he started counting. 

He got to one hundred seventeen before Gustav’s eyes fell on him. Longer than he’d expected, but one of the barmaids hadn’t been quick enough on her feet to escape his grasping hands. When he slid a hand inside her blouse, she slapped him, hard enough to echo through the room, and slid away as he rocked back in shock. He surged to his feet, cursing, and that’s when he finally saw Jacques. He squinted, shook his head, and stared again, barmaid forgotten. Nothing for it, then, Jacques thought, and raised his tankard to the worm, taking a drink.

“Well, if it isn’t the buggering little bastard.” Gustav’s words rang out through the common room, and conversation died. He swaggered over to their table. “But then the Wardens will take anything, won’t they?” When he approached, the changes in his appearance became apparent. He was no longer the trim young squire. He’d gone soft around the middle, his tunic straining across his belly. His face was shot through with burst capillaries, his hair was thinning, and while his clothing was still rich he didn’t sport the armband a Chevalier would wear when out of armor. 

He should keep his mouth shut, he knew, but the frustrations of the past months had built up too far. “Unlike like the chevaliers, it seems.”

There was a shocked silence, and then a few titters from the corners of the room. Gustav’s face went from red to purple and he sputtered. “You little pissant! You should have been gelded. You should be buried in a mineshaft. Your father was nothing and you’re less than nothing. Raping swine.” 

The room was silent again, so Jacques laugh was clear to all.

“You think this is funny? Shall I tell all these people what you tried to do?”

“Say whatever you like, Gustav. The people who actually matter to me know the truth of what happened that day.”

“Are you calling me a liar? I should call you out!”

Jacques sighed and finally stood, watching as Gustav’s face went from purple to white. He’d already been a head taller when they were younger. Now the fool barely came to his shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do that, Gustav? The last time we fought it didn’t go so well for you and your four friends.” 

Gustav stammered and blustered, trying to regain face. “You’re not worth my time. Come on, we’re leaving,” he told his companions. One of them protested, and Gustav knocked his tankard from his hands, spilling the ale down his front. He then proceeded to knock over the rest of the tankards and the pitcher on their table, and then stormed out. His companions all looked at each other, shrugged, and followed him out. None of them had paid for their drinks, Jacques was sure. He beckoned over one of the barmaids, pressed coin into her hand, enough to cover their order and then some. She curtsied and winked, then scurried away.

“Shame you don’t swing that way, Jacques. You could probably end up with all of them in your bed tonight just by blinking,” Taya observed, gesturing at the room. Sure enough, all the barmaids were trying to catch his eye, fiddling with the necklines and shoulders of their blouses if he met their gaze. 

He sighed. His ale had lost its taste. He should be feeling … something. He’d just faced down the man who’d separated him from his love and tried to ruin his life and come out on top, but there was no triumph, just the nagging feeling that this would come back to haunt him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was only a few weeks later that they learned that the Fereldan Wardens had defeated the Archdemon. The dwarf Warden, who was now being called the “Hero of Ferelden” had died in the final battle, and the other had been crowned king of Ferelden. There was a Grey Warden king. That would set heads to spinning.

An official messenger passed through Jader, bearing a letter from the newly crowned king and addressed to Commander Clarel. With the Blight now over, they accompanied the messenger back to Ghislain. The day after their return, a handful of Senior Wardens, including Jacques, were asked to a meeting with the Commander, where they learned what the letter contained. 

“I’ll skip all the flowery political language and just get to the point. Firstly, King Alastair has ceded the arling of Amaranthine to the Wardens.” There was an instant of shocked silence, and then the table erupted in excitement. Clarel waited for them to settle down, then continued. “He also writes that he is now the only Grey Warden in Ferelden. This comes with sad news – Riordan also perished during the final battle with the Archdemon.” They all shared a moment of silence. “This isn’t unexpected to hear, but his loss still hurts. He is being accorded full honors and a monument will be raised in his name when Denerim is rebuilt.” 

“And now more good news. King Alastair asks if we would send a force to help rebuild the Ferelden Wardens. He gives me his utmost assurance that this time we will not be turned back at the border.” This earned a round of chuckles.

“Garam, you’ll lead the group. Take your pick of our lot, with one exception.” She turned and fixed her gaze on Jacques. “With your going, I’ll need a new Constable. Jacques, the position is yours.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“It’s been most of a year since those Fereldens kicked the Archdemon’s arse. Why’re we still findin’ these things crawlin’ around up top?” Stokley complained as the last darkspawn fell. What was supposed to be a simple training exercise had turned into a weeks-long chase and a trip down through a previously unknown cave network. “Isn’t it s’posed to be quiet after a Blight?” 

One of the genlocks was still twitching, so Jacques chopped its head off, shrugging as he did so. “Wiser heads than ours haven’t come up with an answer to that.” He counted Warden heads, and came up with the right number, all still attached to standing bodies. The newest Wardens still looked a bit shaken, but they’d come through alright. “Everyone still alive?” he asked, and received a round of chuckles in response. “Let’s close this hole up and head home.” He gestured, and Shaewyn nodded. When they’d all cleared the cave entrance, green energy crackled around her hands, and the cave mouth collapsed. According to convention, the Wardens were only supposed to recruit one mage at a time, but convention didn’t keep you alive on the battlefield. 

Their path had curved while they were tracking this group, so it took half the time to return home that it had to track the darkspawn to the caves. Jacques was looking forward to a hot meal and a bath when they arrived, order negotiable. He got neither. He’d barely cleared the gates when he was dragged by a panicked runner to Clarel’s office. 

“Commander.” He saluted, and she waved a casual acknowledgement. She looked frazzled. Her hair, always kept short, was spikier than usual, as if she’d been running her hands through it. He waited for her to speak, was surprised when she handed him a parchment roll instead. It was addressed to him, and bore the Imperial seal.

“That arrived two weeks ago.”

Had he been in the field that long? He lost no time in breaking the seal and reading. What was inside set his pulse racing. 

“I’m summoned to the Empress’ presence. I’m supposed to present myself at Halamshiral in,” he blinked and double checked the date. “… seven days?” He finished reading with a squeak.

“Andraste’s Flames! Does it say why?”

He handed her the parchment. There was nothing else on it, just the summons.

“Flames and ashes. Well, get a move on! I’ll get your kit together. We’ll send a string of horses so you can change off. Move, boy!”

He’d been staring at her in shock, his mind reeling, but her final words, uttered just under a roar, spurred him into motion. At least his charger was fresh. Horses were no good when tracking darkspawn, spooking too easily.

He detoured through the kitchen. Word had somehow reached them already, because a pasty was shoved in his one hand and a satchel in the other. By the time he made it to the courtyard, there was a mounted escort waiting, each with an extra horse tied to the saddlebow. Someone grabbed him on the shoulder, pulling him down, and when he bent they shoved a helmet on his head, heavier than the one he usually wore. The helmet was fastened under his chin for him as he inhaled his food, and as he watched two warden recruits ran up with packs, which they secured to his saddles. Tiny had caught the mood and was dancing with impatience, making it had for Jacques to mount. Clarel had made her way up to the battlements above the gate, and she saluted him as they rode out. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The pace they set was grueling, and Jacques was grateful for it, because it left him too exhausted to worry over the summons. They alternated between a trot and a canter, switching horses often. By the end of the fifth day the mounts were played out, except for Tiny, who was still stepping high. They weren’t going to make it at their present pace, he realized. He made a decision, commandeering the two sturdiest of his escort’s horses and riding out alone himself the next morning. Even Tiny was lathered when they reached Halamshiral just after moonrise. When they stumbled up to the gate he presented his summons, and within minutes a swarm of stable boys descended. Shortly after some perfumed functionary appeared, perfectly coiffed and masked despite the late hour. The fop sneered at Jacques’ appearance, covered in road dust and sweat as he was. Although he was swaying with exhaustion, he knew how much appearances mattered, and forced himself stand tall.

“I apologize for my appearance. I was in the field chasing darkspawn and did not receive the Empress’ summons until six days ago.”

The man’s eyes widened, and his jaw gaped in amazement. “You made it from Ghislain in six days?” When Jacques nodded, he beckoned, eyes softening. “Come. Rooms have been prepared for you. I will inform the Empress of your arrival when she awakes. Your audience was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, well, this afternoon now, I suppose, but we can ask…”

“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.” Not until tomorrow afternoon? That was plenty of time to bathe and sleep. Putting it off would only give him time to fret.

Servants were pouring steaming buckets of water into a tub as he was escorted into his room. Rooms. He was too tired for it all to register, but this suite was ten times as big as his quarters at the very least. He was helped out of his armor and into the tub, too tired to protest even when one of the servants started washing his hair for him. He dozed off while his fingernails were being scrubbed. At some point he must have gotten out of the bath, because he woke up in the giant bed when the drapes were drawn and sunlight streamed into his room. 

A young elf in palace livery set a tray next to him, raised the silver lid and released a cloud of fragrant steam. “Your pardon for waking you, Warden, but your audience with the Empress is two hours.”

His belongings had been unpacked while he slept, he saw as he ate. He hadn’t even touched his packs on the journey. His armor was hanging on an armor stand where the tub had stood when he arrived. It had been cleaned, even, and his boots shone glossy and black. His dress tabard and silk tunic, made for just such an occasion but never before worn, had been pressed and were laid out on a chair. Combined with the ornate griffon helmet that he’d been put into before riding out, his utilitarian chain had been transformed into formal armor. Hopefully the court would be impressed. 

When he finished eating, another servant appeared, bearing a basin of steaming water. He sat at the man’s direction and received his first shave at the hand of another. When he was finished, the man turned his face back and forth a few times, then procured a pair of scissors and a comb from somewhere and spent a few minutes trimming Jacques’ hair and what? His eyebrows, for Maker’s sake! When he finished, he nodded in satisfaction, bowed, and left. He had never said a word the entire time, Jacques realized as the door closed behind him.

He had a moment’s peace and then there was another flurry as a passel of servants streamed in. He managed to convince them that he could get into his pants and shirt by himself but after that he surrendered himself to their efforts. There were some subdued twitters when they had to drag chairs over so they could reach up far enough to get his chain shirt over his head, and then a flutter when this mussed his hair. He had to stop them from trying to fix it until after they put the tabard on him. As things progressed he surreptitiously pinched himself several times, as this all seemed like the most surreal dream. 

When they finished, one of the servants handed him his helmet, instructing him to hold it, not wear it, and then gestured towards a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. There were smiles hidden behind hands and more twitters at the distance he had to back away from the mirror to be able to view his whole body in it. Grinning, he gave them all a thumbs-up, and they filed out, each bowing as they passed through the doors.

As the last one filed out a functionary entered. Was it the same man as last night? He couldn’t tell. It was the same mask, but that meant nothing. The man looked him up and down, sniffed, and beckoned for him to follow.

The hallways were a blur, as were the faces in them. He’d never seen so many masks at once. Heads turned as they passed, and he caught a few snippets of conversation.

“That’s Patrice Caron’s boy, isn’t it?”

“What’s a Warden doing here?”

“That is not a fine ass, my dear. That is a superior ass.”

At the last comment, he felt his face heat up. His escort snorted, but whether it was in amusement or disdain he couldn’t tell.

When they reached a pair of ornate doors, the functionary stopped. “Wait here. When you will are announced, make your way down the stairs and across the floor. Walk slowly. You are on display here. Stop ten feet from the dais and kneel. Wait for the Empress to instruct you to rise. When she is through speaking, you will bow and remain bowed until she dismisses you.” With that the man spun on his heel and left.

Jacques took deep breaths, eyes closed, tuning out the hum of the voices around him until the doors opened. 

“Jacques Caron, son of Chevalier Patrice Caron, Senior Grey Warden of Orlais.”

One more breath, and he stepped forward. His heart was pounding, and he timed his pace to it, one step for every three beats. He held his head high, and stared straight forward. Empress Celene watched him approach. The place where he was expected to stop was easy to make out – there was a patch of floor that wasn’t quite as shiny as the rest of the expanse of marble. He knelt, head bowed, and waited. 

He’d only counted to ten when Celene’s voice rang out.

“Rise, Warden Caron.” He stood, settling his helmet more firmly at his waist. The Empress met his eyes for an instant, no expression on her face, then raised her gaze to the masked figures surrounding the central court.

“As you know, King Alistair has begged our assistance in rebuilding the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. We have already sent a contingent of Wardens, and they have reported that the darkspawn are not retreating to the Deep Roads, as they have after past Blights. As this is an issue that concerns all of Thedas, and as a sign of the continued mutual friendship between our lands, we will be sending additional aid in these troubled times. As such, Warden Caron will be joining his comrades, as the newly appointed Commander of the Grey of Ferelden.”

There was a pause while Jacques stood in shock, and then cheers and applause filled the room. The Empress cocked her head slightly, and he mentally shook himself, bowing as instructed. He barely heard his dismissal over the roaring of those above. When he rose, Celene inclined her head ever so slightly to him, then turned, accepting a glass from one of her attendants. 

The trip back across that marble floor felt ten times as long as the trip out, but at last he made it to the stairs. As soon as he reached the landing he was thronged with well-wishers. He had no idea who any of them were, but he smiled and bowed and pressed hands while saying as little as possible. It felt like hours until he reached the outskirts of the hall, but as soon as he cleared the crush he snagged a servant and asked for help getting back to his rooms.

That servant passed him along to another, and that one to another, and then yet another and another. Apparently there was a hierarchy, and the ones serving drinks at the audience were at the bottom of the ladder. Eventually one bowed and opened a set of doors that were indistinguishable from all the other doors in a long hallway, and he sighed in relief when he recognized his things strewn about.

It was hard work, getting out of a chain mail shirt by oneself, requiring such wiggling and twisting that an exotic dancer would have applauded his contortions. He lost a few hairs in the process, but sighed happily once the weight was off his shoulders. He continued to strip until he was down to shirt and trousers. Boots joined the pile, and he wiggled his toes in luxury, enjoying the thick pile of the carpet beneath his feet. Shuffling across the room, he fell face-forward onto the bed, able to appreciate the luxury of the down-filled silk coverlet now that he wasn’t half-dead from exhaustion. He was starting to drift off again when there was a knock at his door. 

He thought about not answering. He’d been thrust straight into the heart of the Game with no warning, and there was no telling what rumors were flying around court. Maybe he could burrow deep enough under the coverlet that they couldn’t find him. As he considered there came another knock, and then his name was called. The door muffled the voice, but it sounded familiar, so he dragged himself up off the bed and crossed the room to the door, calling out as he approached.

“I’m coming.”

When he opened the door, he realized at once why the voice sounded familiar.

“Master Joubert!”

His old teacher swept past him into the room.

“What’s with this ‘master’ nonsense? From what I hear I should be saluting you.”

They stood facing each other for a moment, and then Joubert reached up, grasped both his shoulders and squeezed. “Look at you, lad. Your father would be so proud.”

Jacques blinked, eyes suddenly stinging. Joubert gave his shoulders another squeeze, then released him.

“Come on, let’s get them to bring us up something to drink, and then you must tell me what you’ve been up to all these years.”

Apparently, pulling the cord by the bed summoned servants. His arrival had been so rushed that Jacques was still unfamiliar with all the amenities. Several bottles of wine and a meal later, Jacques’ eyelids were drooping again, but he’d managed to come to grips with the situation.

Joubert had become much more active in the Game in the last few years, or from what he said, at least a more active spectator.

“These fools think those of us without titles are beneath their notice, but the old ones don’t seem to have realized that in the twenty seven years of training their offspring I might’ve heard a few things. I didn’t used to pay that much attention, I’ll admit, but what after what happened to you and Yves, well, …. At least I’ve been able to helps keep some of my lads out of trouble since.”

Joubert had a surprising amount of knowledge of the events that had led up to Jacques’ promotion. Some on the Empress’ council had not wanted to send any more Wardens to Ferelden, saying they’d done enough already. Some wanted to send another contingent, larger than the first, and use them as a foothold to try to take Ferelden again. The others that favored the course that had been taken, a single Warden sent as Commander, were the minority, but somehow they’d triumphed.

“This isn’t an honor for you, lad. There are those who set this up hoping you’ll fail. The Vauquelins are still blaming every failure of theirs on the two of you, because the alternative is to admit that they’ve just not been playing the Game well for the last decade. They’ve only managed to survive this long because they’re obscenely wealthy. But somehow they managed to sway the Heralds that this is the perfect solution and you are the perfect candidate. They’ve even managed to gain a few points, making it clear they’re putting aside their past enmity against you and recognizing your skills and fitness for the post.” Joubert spun his wine glass between his fingers. “And they played up the national pride angle as well. It’s been said more than once that if it only took two Ferelden Wardens a year to end the Blight, that we shouldn’t need to send but one of ours to finish picking up their pieces a year later.”

“Well, then. Here’s to national pride.” Jacques raised his wine glass, and they both drained them. 

“You’ve been given a reprieve today, in consideration of your journey here. Well done, by the way. I know it wasn’t on purpose, but you’ve added a page to your legend, arriving as you did. But expect the vultures to descend tomorrow. They’ll fill your days with planning and politicking and try to cram your head with useless facts. Just smile and nod. Oh, and expect to be here at least a month before setting out. They’ll want you royally kitted out, so both the armorers and the tailors will be wanting a piece of you.”

He saw Joubert to the door. Before he could open it, Joubert said, “You haven’t asked, but I hear from Yves occasionally.”

Jacques froze, hand on the latch.

“He’s doing well enough, considering. He and Rosette had a lot in common, it turns out. She hadn’t been enthused about their match either, had her own love who wasn’t suitable enough. They seem to have worked things out.” He paused. “They’ve got three children now. Their daughter’s seven, and they just had twin boys.”

Jacques knew about the daughter. She had been born shortly before they’d had their first and last meeting. They’d only had a few minutes together, but as they’d parted, Yves had whispered in his ear. “It’s not mine.” He wondered if Rosette’s old love was the father. That was something he couldn’t share, though, not even with Joubert. So he nodded and thanked Joubert. When he closed the door behind his old teacher, he leaned back against it, letting his eyes close, allowed himself a moment to think of might-have-beens.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, as Joubert predicted, the servant who brought his breakfast was accompanied by another functionary. Her gown matched her male predecessor (predecessors?) in color and her mask was the same as theirs. Her manner was also identical, full of sniffs and sneers. 

“Good morning, Commander. I am Ludevine. It will be my honor to assist you over the next few weeks.” She curtsied, and he bowed in response. She presented him with a schedule of meetings and court sessions he was expected to attend, as well as multiple fittings with tailors and several lengthy sessions with the royal armorer. Ludevine always seemed to be aware of his exact location in Halamshiral, and he quickly got used to her materializing at his elbow, reminding him of his next appointment with a sniff or a clearing of throat.

He endured his appearances at court, and verbally danced his way through the evenings. He managed to be cordial and complimentary while remaining noncommittal whenever pressed for an opinion on whatever political topics arose. His dry sense of humor seemed to go over well, and Ludevine’s manner softened as the days passed.

He was pleased one afternoon when a knock at his door revealed two servants carrying a trunk of his possessions. Word had been sent after his arrival letting Commander Clarel know he would be departing for Ferelden directly from Halamshiral, and she’d apparently arranged to have his things forwarded to him. Knowing he’d have his journals with him in what was to be his new home and not stored in a trunk a country away was an unexpected comfort. 

His meetings were with a variety of folk, some with the Council of Heralds, some with experts on Ferelden culture (although they said this word with a sneer and these conversations were overly filled with the words “dogs” and “mud”), and he learned everything he could about Amaranthine, his new holding.

That part still had Jacques reeling. In effect, he was now landed nobility. True, it was under the aegis of the Wardens, and in a foreign country where he would be considered an interloper and from hated Orlais to boot. But a title and lands were the ultimate dream of every chevalier, and now despite the turn his life had taken, he had achieved it.

His new armor reflected his new status. It was personally presented to him by the Empress on the evening before his departure. Burnished full plate, ornately enameled, and with a plumed helmet, he would cut an impressive figure, although he couldn’t actually imagine wearing something so ornate into battle. He’d be expected to wear it in the morning. A grand procession had been planned to see him off. He made plans to shed it as soon as they were out of sight of the city and not don it again until they reached the Ferelden border. The clothes weren’t much better, all velvets and silks. The trunk the Wardens had sent had included his spare clothing, thank the Maker, so he wouldn’t look like a peacock all the time.

He’d managed one more dinner with Joubert before he left, several evenings before, despite the increasing demand for his presence at court. He could now put names to most of the half-faces at formal affairs he attended, but there were none there that he’d ever trust to call friend. Those he’d all left behind when he rode through the gates a month before. Only time would tell if those at the end of this journey would merit that distinction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11K+ words, and I am finally to the start of Awakenings! Chapter three is shaping up to be longer than expected (shocking, I know, because that NEVER happens in fan fiction!)


	3. Ambushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacques arrives to take command at Amaranthine, and things are not as he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say this was going to be three parts? *laughs* *cries*
> 
> I've finally gotten Jacques to the start of Awakenings at last! I will be playing fast and loose with the game dialog, changing some of to fit my story.

Jacques’ introduction to the arling of Amaranthine had been nothing like he’d expected. He’d been met by a representative from the holding when they were still a week out, and he’d opted to leave his escort and their slow wagons behind and ride on ahead. His guide, a woman named Mhairi, had been surprised but willing, and they’d made good time on the road. Being attacked by darkspawn and finding the keep overrun had been a shock, and not sensing their presence had unsettled him even more. Then came the discovery of a talking darkspawn, and finding all the Wardens at the keep either dead or taken. With the help of an apostate mage and a drunken dwarf they cleared the keep of its invaders.

He met his seneschal on the battlements where they defeated the leader of the darkspawn, an older gentleman named Varel. With the man’s help, he confirmed what he already suspected. There were no Wardens left in Vigil’s Keep besides himself. A dozen Wardens had left Orlais. Warden Kristoff had left for Amaranthine the evening before the attack, under orders from Garam, so there should have been eleven Wardens at the keep. With Varel’s help he found three of their bodies. Garam was among the missing, as was the elven mage Taeros. Jacques gave thanks to the Maker that Blackwall hadn’t been included in their company. There was no trail that the Keep’s few remaining scouts could find that suggested where the Wardens might have been taken.

He was in the courtyard hearing their reports when the lookout called from the palisade. “Soldiers on the road! It’s the King’s banner!”

Looking around, he grimaced. They were hardly fit for a royal reception. Those in the courtyard gathered together. He caught sight of the mage, Anders, hovering behind a few of the soldiers, looking white of eye. He was surprised the man hadn’t rabbited already, instead staying to offer healing. Their casualties would have been much higher without his assistance. Catching Anders’ eye, he gestured him back, and then turned his attention towards the approaching column. 

The Ferelden King approached, armor shining and banner snapping crisply above him. Jacques sighed as he looked down at his torn and gore-covered gear. This was a far cry from the Empress’ enameled plate. 

As the King rode through the splintered remains of the gate, he was distracted by a foul odor. Had the wind shifted? They hadn’t started burning the darkspawn corpses yet, had they? Then a belch sounded at his elbow and he realized the dwarf had come up to stand beside him. As soon the king dismounted, Oghren called out, “Yer late! You missed all the fun!”

The king did a most unkingly doubletake as those behind him muttered, outraged at the dwarf’s lack of proper address. “Oghren?” he asked, incredulous, and strode forward. He grasped the dwarf’s hand and clapped him on the back, then drew back, nose wrinkling. “Nice to know some things don’t change!”

“You know it, your kingship!” Oghren chuckled.

Looking around, Jacques realized that he and Oghren were the only ones in the courtyard not kneeling. He thought about it, realized he might not get back up again, and settled for a deep bow instead. “Your Majesty!”

King Alistair turned to him. “You must be the new Commander!”

“Guilty, I am afraid. I apologize for our condition, but you are not our first surprise of the day,” Jacques said

“I’d wanted to give you a formal welcome, but I certainly wasn’t expecting this. What happened?” the king asked.

“The Keep was under attack from darkspawn when I arrived, Your Highness,” Jacques explained.

“Darkspawn? How is that possible? I didn’t sense anything,” Alistair asked.

“I’m afraid it’s true, Your Majesty,” Seneschal Varel confirmed. ‘They came out of nowhere, and have disappeared just as mysteriously. The Wardens had no warning of their approach, and they are all now dead or missing.”

“Missing? As in taken by the darkspawn? Do they even do that?” The king sounded incredulous, and if Jacques hadn’t seen the evidence with his own eyes, he knew he would feel the same, but Varel reaffirmed his previous statement.

“Well, at least our new Commander is still here. That’s something, isn’t it?” he added.

“I am, yes, but the situation here is less than ideal. I will need to begin recruitment to build up our ranks again,” Jacques said.

“Of course! You have quite the task ahead of you. We’ll stay here a few days and help with the cleanup.” One of the men behind him cleared his throat and started to speak, and Alistair cut him off. “Yes, I know we are expected back in Denerim, but it can wait. There is a need for us here.”

“Hey, he’s not alone here. We’re not nug livers!” Oghren grumbled.

Before Jacques could express his thanks, a Templar pushed her way forward. “King Alistair! Your Majesty, beware. That man is a dangerous criminal.” She pointed, and Jacques saw that the soldiers Anders had been standing behind had shifted and he was now visible over the dwarf’s shoulders. 

Alistair snorted. “Oh, the dwarf’s a bit of an ass, but I wouldn’t go that far.”

With a sigh, Anders stepped forward. “She means me.” The defeated tone of his voice was heartbreaking to hear. When the Templar started ranting about murder and hanging and justice, without hesitation Jacques stepped forward and conscripted the mage. He wasn’t going to stand by and watch someone be punished for crimes they didn’t commit. That struck too close to home.

His pronouncement caused an uproar, but Alistair supported his claim and wouldn’t hear the Templar’s protestations. When she continued to protest, the King dismissed her. Glaring, she stomped off, and at her signal two other Templars peeled off from the column. They watched her ride away, then turned their attention back to the keep.

The King’s party set up in the camp in the fields outside the walls. His soldiers, fresh and unwounded, were a great aid. By the end of that day, the Keep’s dead were prepared for burning, and they had a pile of darkspawn corpses to set to the torch as well. Jacques asked Varel to lead the memorial service, as he had not known any of the deceased.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Soon after the memorial ended, one of the Keep’s guards approached Jacques. “Commander, there’s a matter that needs your attention. We captured a man several days before your arrival, sneaking around the keep at night. It took four of us to subdue him, so he is no simple thief. He’s locked up still.”

He found the jailhouse with little effort. There was only one occupant, a dark-haired man in simple clothing. At least they had been feeding him – there was an empty plate and a pitched of water inside his cell. His stomach still twisted, looking through the bars. He was suddenly back in his own cell for a moment, awaiting sentence for a crime he didn’t commit.

The man, it turned out, was the son of the former Arl. He admitted that at first he had planned to set a traps for Jacques, but had decided instead that all he really wanted was to reclaim some of his family’s things. At these words, Jacques made his decision, but he continued his questioning, wanting to know a little more about this man first.

“So what would you do if I let you go?” Jacques asked.

Nathaniel was shocked. “If you let me go? I don’t know. I only came back to Ferelden a month ago. If you let me go, I’ll probably come back here and you might not catch me next time.”

“You’re not making the best case for yourself,” Jacques said.

Nathanial grimaced. “I could lie if you prefer.”

“No, I prefer honesty,” Jacques replied.

Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up and he snorted. 

“Do you really hate me so much?” Jacques asked.

At this, the Howe’s face fell. “The darkspawn are a menace. If it weren’t for the Blight, maybe my father would never have done what he did. But I can’t do anything about them, can I? There’s just you and the Grey Wardens, here in my home,” he finished, angry now.

Jacques decided there was nothing more that needed to be said. He gestured to the guard. “Please let Seneschal Varel know I’ve decided what to do about the prisoner.

He saw fear in Nathaniel’s eyes, quickly masked. “Already? Good!” he sneered, then sat on the cot, ignoring Jacques presence. 

Jacques found he couldn’t watch him as he waited. His heart twisted painfully. It had been almost nine years, but the memories could still wound, it seemed.

At last Varel arrived, the guard in tow, and when he spoke his decision, it was hard to say which of them were more surprised.

“Return his things and let him go,” Jacques said.

“What?” Nathaniel, who had risen at the seneschal’s appearance, sat down again, hard, shock taking the strength from his legs. The guard looked back and forth between the three of them, and then took several steps back, swallowing, and started examining the ceiling as Varel started protesting.

Jacques interrupted him and turned back to Nathaniel. “Make a list of the things you hoped to find. The Seneschal will have someone look for them. Within reason of course. No solid gold candlesticks or gem encrusted tiaras.’ Turning back to the Seneschal, he instructed, “Give him a bunk and feed him and let him leave tomorrow morning.”

Varel’s mouth opened and closed repeatedly, but no words came out at first. Finally he stammered, “Commander, I must object! You want to give a thief what he came here to steal?”

“He’s not a thief. They are his family’s things. At worst, he was trespassing, but we have more serious concerns.” He remembered how he’d felt, that morning in the tavern in Val Royeaux, realizing that his precious heirlooms were not lost to him. He would not be able to live with his conscience if he denied another man his. 

Varel tried a different tack. “And what if he changes his mind and decides he wants to come back and kill you after all?”

Jacques laughed. “I’m an Orlesian in command of a Ferelden arling. I’m sure a line is already forming.”

The Seneschal had no response for this. He looked like he wanted to continue his protests, but he swallowed them and nodded, stepping back.

“Go with this guard, Nathaniel,” Jacques instructed. "And good luck to you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The King’s party stayed for three days. That first morning, he was surprised to turn and find Alistair, clad in a simple shirt and trousers, right behind him, helping to clear the rubble around where the main gates used to stand. His troops had also stripped out of their armor and were working besides the Keep’s people. His people, he had to remind himself. He learned later that more of the king’s party had been assisting in the cleaning efforts inside the keep. The damage the darkspawn had done was compounded by the explosives one of the dwarves had set during the attack, and there was almost as much rubble inside as out. There was no doubt that the dwarf’s actions had saved lives, though, so Jacques considered it worth the cost.

There was only one person who hindered instead of helped – the man that had first objected when Alistair announced his decision to stay. Jacques began to think of him as “The Nuisance,” as he never learned his name. His sole purpose seemed to be to nag the king about the duties he was neglecting by staying at the Vigil. After the second or third time he had interrupted them in the space of an hour, Alistair thrust a shovel into the surprised man’s hand and brusquely ordered him to “shut up and shove off.” The man sputtered in protest but left, and a few hours later Jacques saw him making rounds with buckets of water for the workers. 

His subjects treated their king with respect and admiration, despite his easy manner. He seemed to know the name of every one of the soldiers that had traveled with them and kept up a running banter with them throughout the day. He had a cheerful sense of humor, bordering on silly, and yet seemed to appreciate Jacques’ dry wit. And he worked without complaint throughout the day, soon indistinguishable from the rest of the dusty sweaty men and women they worked besides.

He’d joked earlier with Varel about his status as an Orlesian earning him enemies, and was braced for some form of unpleasantness from these Fereldens, but it never materialized.

When he brought it up, Alistair shrugged. “You have to realize that the few here who were actually alive during the occupation were children, and most have only heard about it from a parent or grandparent. It’s hard to maintain an old prejudice against someone who’s working right beside them, getting the same scrapes and strains they are.” He paused in his labors, stretching his back and wiping sweat from his brow, and grinned. “All those rippling muscles don’t hurt, either.” He nodded off to the side, and when Jacques turned to look, he caught several men and women staring at him. When they saw him looking, they all blushed and redoubled their efforts. “Seriously, what did they feed you as a child? Or all your family giants?”

“My mother fed me bear’s milk as an infant, and then when I was weaned I ate nothing but bear meat until I was five,” Jacques replied, deadpan.

“No, really?” Alistair asked, incredulous.

“No,” Jacques retorted, allowing a grin to curl the corners of his mouth.

“Hah! Good one!” Alistair slapped him on the back.

Jacques was surprised how quickly he came to like Alistair, and how much they seemed to have in common. They were close enough in age, both orphans, both finding themselves in high stations neither would have dreamed of as boys. 

After dinner that evening, one of the Keep’s soldiers sought Jacques out. 

“Sergeant Maverlies, sir!” She introduced herself, saluting. “Begging your pardon, Commander, but there’s a matter you should know of.” He nodded, and she continued. “I don’t want to alarm anyone, but it’s possible there are still darkspawn in The Vigil.”

Vigil’s Keep was built on top of a system of caverns, it seemed, and the Sergeant thought that’s how the darkspawn had swarmed the keep. The passage leading to the lower levels had been damaged during the attack. They’d cleared the rubble that allowed access to the lower levels that afternoon, but the soldiers were nervous to go any further. Jacques promised he’d look into it as soon as possible. After he dismissed her, he sighed. If there were still darkspawn beneath the keep, he’d have a better chance of clearing them out with more Wardens at his back.

So it was that on the second morning after his arrival Jacques presided over the joining for Mhairi. Anders and Oghren. Alastair stood with him as the words were recited. 

Oghren took a deep draught and let loose with a belch that shook the rafters and made Jacques’ eyes water before collapsing. Alistair checked his old friend’s pulse and sighed in relief. 

Anders’ made a joke before drinking, but Jacques would have been surprised if he hadn’t. The mage survived as well. 

Then it was Mhairi’s turn. He bowed his head as Varel closed her eyes. 

“Two out of three,” Alastair sighed. “It never gets easier.”

While Oghren and Anders recovered, Jacques again spent the day helping with repairs and cleanup. He also spent most of the day trying to dissuade Alistair from coming with him when he ventured into the lower levels. While Alistair had the right of it, arguing for the benefits of having another experienced Warden with him, Jacques was unwilling to put a king with no heirs at risk. 

He resorted to playing dirty when Alistair wouldn’t be swayed, timing their conversation so it was overheard by The Nuisance, as well as a handsful of the king’s soldiers. 

“To be frank, I am not worried about your continued good health here. I am worried about mine. If any harm comes to you, no matter how small, the blame would fall to me, and it wasn’t too long ago that the Wardens’ were named the cause of your brother’s death. Additionally, I know there has been speculation that our presence is merely the first step towards an attempt by Orlais to re-occupy their land. It was even suggested by some on the Herald’s Council, which is why I alone traveled here to assume command. Men in our position must always consider the larger picture. Your Majesty,” he added, when it looked like Alistair was going to continue with his objections.

The Nuisance looked like he was about to add something, but cleared his throat instead when someone elbowed him in the ribs. There were murmurings of agreement with Jacques’ words from all in earshot, though.

“Fine, have it your way.” Alistair pointed a finger at him. “But if you die down there I will be very cross with you. After all, think of the embarrassment I’ll endure if I have to tell the Empress that I lost all of the Wardens she was kind enough to send me.”

“I will do my utmost to not die down there. I give you my word.” Jacques gave Alistair an elaborate bow, with all the flourishes he could manage, and was rewarded with a laugh in return.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

So it was on the third morning after his arrival that with Oghren at his side, already used to battling darkspawn after his travels with the Hero of Ferelden, and Anders at their backs, magic at the ready, they cleared the first levels beneath the Vigil of darkspawn and ghouls.

There was another blockage at the entrance to the next set of lower levels, so they trooped back to the surface, and after lunch it was back to clearing rubble again.

That evening instead of dining with the rest, he and Alistair retired to Jacques’ newly restored quarters. Happily, the cellars had been mostly untouched during the attack, and the Keep’s wine and foodstuffs had remained safe and uncontaminated. 

“I wish I could stay longer. Maker knows they don’t really need me in Denerim. Anora handles all the royal business better than I do. But they all get antsy if I’m away too long,” Alistair said.

“It seems Fereldans are as obsessed with royal bloodlines as Orlesians, if you’ll excuse my saying so,” Jacques observed as he topped off both their goblets.

“No excusings necessary. It’s the truth. Anora was born to rule, but she’s only one generation away from commoner in the eyes of the Landsmeet. Even though my mother was a chambermaid and I was practically raised by dogs, my royal blood somehow makes me the better choice to rule this country.” Alistair sighed, took another drink. “But hey, since we’re talking about depressing things, I hear that you released Rendon Howe’s son.”

Of course the rumors had circulated. “Indeed,” Jacques replied. He’d been trying not to think of Nathaniel Howe, and yet the man kept creeping into his thoughts. But he was gone, hopefully for good. There was no cause for worry. 

“If he’s anything like his father, you’ll need to keep an eye out for him,” Alistair warned, as if he’d read Jacques’ thoughts. “If I’d have known he was here, I would have recommended executing him.” 

“Was his father really that bad?” Jacques asked. 

“Oh, you know, slaughtering whole families and stealing their castle, torturing people, terrorizing the poor. Standard murdering bastard fare. Oswin Sighard never did walk right again and even though Fergus Cousland reclaimed his ancestral lands after the Blight, that didn’t bring his family back to life.” Alistair’s voice was light and mocking in tone, but his face darkened with a scowl.

“I had no sense of true malice from Nathaniel Howe, but I will take precautions. He has not been sighted again since he left,” Jacques replied. He hesitated, and then finally dared to voice the words he’d been dying to since he’d first met Alistair. “By the way, you must know that Riordan made several, well, unapproved trips over the border during the Blight, yes? And if we hadn’t heard the stories directly from him, we would not have believed them. If you don’t mind, I would greatly like to hear how two lone Wardens stopped a Blight in less than a year.” 

They spent the rest of the evening swapping tales. Jacques learned of the heroic young dwarf, exiled from her people, who united a land and put two kings on their thrones. His stories were much less epic in comparison, but he found himself telling Alistair for the first time the entire thread of events that had led up to his conscription. They found another thread in common between themselves that evening, both having lost those they loved. By the time they were both finished the night was almost past, and they agreed there was really no point in going to bed. The dregs from their last bottle of wine were raised in a toast to the dawn on the battlements, and after breakfast Jacques saw Alistair and his party off at the gate. 

They disguised it well, he thought. None of those gathered seemed to notice that they were both still slightly inebriated (well, more than slightly) as they gathered in the courtyard. He held his breath as Alistair mounted, released it when he settled into the saddle without toppling over the other side. As he waved in farewell, he mentally crossed his fingers, praying that Alistair wouldn’t fall off his horse as they rode away. 

He waited until the banner disappeared around a curve in the road, then turned back to survey his keep. There were still huge holes in the walls, flattened buildings, trampled gardens, and the large circle of ashes where a mound of darkspawn had been burned, but Varel was already drawing up plans for repairs, and his treasurer, a silver-haired dowager, was pushing for more trade. Alistair had left him with a master armorer and his merchant brother, both from Denerim, and a contingent from Orzammar had arrived the day before. 

“Still much work yet to be done, Commander,” Varel said from beside him.

“True, but at least no one had tried to stab me in the back yet!” It was obvious that Varel had no clue whether he was joking or not. The Seneschal began outlining the next steps they needed to take, making sure the roads and farms were secure and finding ways to increase trade while also discovering where the darkspawn were hiding. Jacques nodded as he walked, only half listening. He was brought to an abrupt halt when Varel pulled him back, stepping out in front of him, arms spread. He couldn’t see what had alarmed the man at first, until Varel pointed towards the stairs leading into the Keep’s main hall, and the man sitting on them.

“I told you it was a mistake to let the Howe go,” Varel growled. 

Jacques squinted. The morning was bright, and his head was beginning to hurt. Yes, that was Nathaniel Howe sitting on the stairs, a bow across his knees. He made no threatening moves, though, remaining where he was. He’d been watching them approach, Jacques realized. 

“Stand down, Varel. If he was here to kill me we wouldn’t have seen him until it was too late. If at all,” he added as Nathaniel nodded.

“What’s he doing here, then?” Varel asked.

“Well?” Jacques asked.

Nathaniel stood slowly, bow slack at his side. “You set me free. Just let me go, despite what I said or what I might do. I want to know why.”

“I’m not looking for a fight with you, Nathaniel,” Jacques replied, trying for a soothing tone. Just because the man didn’t look like he might attack now didn’t mean that might not change.

“Even though I was looking for a fight with you?” Nathaniel asked, and Jacques shrugged. He was completely unprepared for what came next.

“Make me a Grey Warden!” Nathaniel demanded. Jacques heard Varel’s surprised intake of breath, and cut off the start of a protest with the shake of his head. 

He tried to dissuade Nathaniel, but to no avail. He shouldn’t be trying to discourage the Howe, he knew. They needed recruits. But something in him wanted Nathaniel to life, save and far from here. Nathaniel wouldn’t be dissuaded, though.

“I have nowhere to go. I fully expected to die in there, either from the darkspawn or your sentencing. Maybe I even wanted to. But you let me go! Make me a Grey Warden,” Nathaniel pled. “Let me try. Please,” he begged.

Jacques could feel Varel’s shock when he acquiesced. He rubbed his forehead, feeling entirely too sober too suddenly. “We still have darkspawn blood saved from the attack, yes?” he asked Varel. When the Seneschal nodded, he said, “Very well. Then. Let us prepare for the Joining.”

Recruits were always dismayed at the suddenness at which the Wardens initiated the Joining, and Nathaniel was no exception, but he followed willingly. By the time the blood was prepared, Anders and Oghren had joined them. 

Nathaniel stared into the goblet before drinking. “Nothing to fear,” he said before downing the draught.

Jacques didn’t let himself examine his relief at Nathaniel’s survival too closely, attributing it only to their need of more Wardens to replace those lost. He was only keeping an eye on the man, he told himself, as he helped carry him to a room to recover.

As he was leaving he heard Anders and Oghren bantering with each other.

“So, we just let anyone into this outfit, huh?” Oghren grumped.

“I sense a knife in the back. Just saying,” Anders replied in a sing-song voice.

There’d been a room prepared, and they laid Nathaniel out on the narrow bed. His bow and pack were laid on the table next to the bed, so they would be in plain sight when he woke. 

Jacques’ long evening was starting to catch up with him, and as the servants who’d assisted him filed out he settled himself in the room’s single chair. He’d get up in a moment, Jacques told himself, once he knew that Nathaniel wouldn’t be one of the ones who only passed out briefly after the Joining. Just a few moments more, he thought as his breathing slowed and his head dipped until his chin was resting on his chest.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nathaniel returned to consciousness slowly. His head was pounding and his mouth felt like something had crawled into it and died sometime last week. But he was alive. He’d survived the Joining, and he was a Grey Warden, like his grandfather.

It wasn’t until he sat up that he realized he wasn’t alone in the room. He stared in shock at the sight of the Warden Commander asleep in a chair, head lost in a tumble of black hair, legs stretched most of the way across the floor of the narrow room. His breathing was so shallow Nathaniel had a moment of panic, wondering if the man was dead and he’d take the blame, but then the Commander shifted slightly, head falling to one side. The motion was enough to wake him, and he jerked upright, hand clenching where a sword should be sheathed.

“Do you normally fall asleep in the presence of people who’ve threatened to kill you?” he couldn’t help but ask. 

The Commander gave him a rueful smile. “Not the most intelligent thing to do, I agree. I hadn’t meant to drop off. The last few days have been ….” He trailed off, shrugging, and rose from his seat. “I have no idea if it’s close to mealtime, but the kitchens here are hopefully used to our appetites. Make sure you take advantage of that. Welcome to the Wardens, Nathaniel Howe.” With that he left. 

“Maker’s blood, he is a strange man,” Nathaniel muttered after the door closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It made no sense to me that Alistair would ride all the way from Denerim, say a few words at the gate and then immediately ride away again, so bonus kingly time here.
> 
> At the moment I'm about 400 words into Chapter 4. I've been posting weekly so far, but the story is coming a bit slower now. I still can't believe this is already as long as it is!


	4. Frustrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jacques settles into his new role, learns of a conspiracy against him, and visits the city of Amaranthine for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this was going to be in three parts, didn't I? *rolls around on the ground, sobbing and laughing*

The week after Alistair left, Seneschal Varel assembled the banns so they could give Jacques their oaths of fealty. After a month spent at court in Orlais, the proceedings were blessedly simple. He had the advantage of learning who each of the banns were before their arrival, for one, and their machinations were nothing compared to The Game.

After some time spent mingling, Jacques drew Varel aside. “Surprisingly there only seems to be one plot against me developing,” he joked.

Varel wasn’t amused. “Do you know the conspirators? The Rite of High Justice is yours, and treachery is a capital offense.”

“Ser Tamra didn’t have names, but she has some evidence that she’ll bring us,” Jacques replied.

“She’s a slippery one, Ser Tamra, but she’s knowledgeable about some things,” Varel cautioned.

“Well, better to be a touch paranoid than turning up face down in a ditch somewhere. What are our options?” Jacques asked.

“We could have some soldiers try to spy on the nobility. There are also rumors of someone called the Dark Wolf, who finds information for a fee. A dangerous fellow, by all accounts.” Varel grimaced. “You could also invite a member of each of the noble families to stay as prolonged … guests. If anything untowards happens? Well, you get the picture. It is a terribly Orlesian thing to do.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Varel looked horrified. “I beg your pardon, my lord!”

Jacques chuckled, shaking his head. “It would be, wouldn’t it?” He felt no small amount of pride in the fact that Varel had accepted him so thoroughly already as to forget his nationality. “I’ll look for this Dark Wolf. No need to rub their noses in my Orlesianness. Not yet, at least.”

He mingled for another hour, then had Varel call an end to the evening.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Even above the threat of conspiracy, the darkspawn were Jacques’ priority, the reason for which he had been sent to Ferelden. And yet his insistence on seeing to their threat first frustrated both Seneschal Varel and Mistress Woolsley. They both hounded him about trade and roads and farms, and failed to see that all of them were in peril if he didn’t track down the source of the attacks.

The only lead they had on the darkspawn was a report of some hunters from Amaranthine who had found an odd chasm in the Knotwood Hills. Since Warden Kristoff hadn’t yet returned from the city, and since the merchants that Mistress Woolsley had been pestering him about were also based there, it seemed a visit was in order. 

He overruled them both when they tried to insist he take a troop of the Keep’s soldiers with him. 

“We need as many bodies here to protect the Vigil if there is another attack, and to help with the rebuilding if there isn’t. I’ll travel with Nathaniel, Oghren, and Anders,” he stated.

This led to another round of arguments. 

“Such a small party won’t be safe,” Varel said. “There are still darkspawn out there, and bandits as well.”

“Did you not see Oghren in action? His breath alone should fell any bandits we come across,” Jacques joked.

Varel didn’t share his amusement. He tried another tack. “I don’t like you traveling with the Howe. What if he tries to kill you again?”

“What do you mean again? He hasn’t tried to kill me a first time, Varel.” The seneschal wasn’t reassured. “I promise, I’ll sleep in my armor,” he told the older man.

Mistress Woolsley approved of a smaller party, mainly because it would cost less, Jacques was sure. 

After reviewing a few more reports, Jacques was able to escape. He could have sent people to inform his new Wardens that they’d be traveling come morning, but it gave him an excuse to wander the Keep. His Keep. He was still getting used to that.

He found Oghren in the cellar. The dwarf was adding strange things to a cask in one of the corners. Was that dirt? He decided he didn’t want to know. Anders was in the keep’s apothecary, flirting with an herbalist while helping her make potions. Nathaniel didn’t seem to be in the keep. Inquiries led him out to the grounds, and he stopped in amazement as he witnessed a minor miracle. The dour Howe was smiling, laughing even, deep in conversation with a wizened old man who was leaning on a rake and had mud ground into the knees of his trousers. As he neared, he heard the man call Nathaniel “Little Nate,” with affection evident in his voice. He hung back, not wanting to interrupt the reunion, but Nathaniel had seen him approach.

“Did you hear that?” he asked. “My sister is alive! Could we ask around the shops, next time we’re in Amaranthine?”

When Nathaniel turned the full force of his smile on him, Jacques couldn’t do anything but acquiesce. He let the man know they’d be leaving for the city the next morning, then made his escape, heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t felt like this since … since the first time he saw Yves smile at him over his shield in the practice yard so many years ago.

Varel was right after all, although not exactly in the way he meant. Nathaniel Howe was going to be trouble.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

He’d come overland from Jader and bypassed Amaranthine on his way in, making straight for the keep, so when he got his first sight of the “jewel of the arling,” he was taken aback. It looked nothing jewel-like at all, especially compared to Halamshiral and Val Royeaux. The city had plain stone walls and buildings, the roofs were either timbered or covered in red clay tile, and the streets were packed dirt. 

The walls were sturdy, at least. More defensible than the keep in its current condition, for certain. He’d told Varel and Garevel to concentrate on protecting the roads and the countryside before he left, and from what he was seeing here it’d been the right decision. The city also had a strong guard force, although they seemed to concentrate on the city itself and left the collection of hovels outside the gates to its own devices.

Their trip hadn’t been boring. They’d routed some bandits and a group of darkspawn on the way. His new Wardens dealt efficiently with both. In between the fighting, Anders’ and Oghren’s banter kept a grin on his face. Several times he even caught Nathaniel almost smiling at their exchanges.

It took a bit of asking around to find Colbert, the hunter Garevel had mentioned, but when they did a few silvers got them a possible location for the source of the darkspawn attacks. They’d just finished their conversation when they were approached by a man in rough homespun and leather. Everything about his behavior was suspicious. 

“Excuse me. You are the new Warden Commander, yes? I have a proposition for you. If you would?” and he made a gesture away from the main thoroughfare. 

Jacques demurred. “You’ll have to forgive me for not wishing to follow a stranger into a dark alley. If you have something to say to me, you can do it here.”

The man looked around, considering. Figuring one man couldn’t do too much harm, Jacques told his companions, “If you could give us a bit of privacy, please?”

None of them looked happy about it, but they all moved a few paces off. Anders in particular glared at the shady character, fingering his staff as he waited.

“To business, then,” he told the man.

“Ah, yes. I knew you’d be interested. You know an opportunity when it presents itself, no?” the man said. “I offer a partnership that would benefit us both. The bartender at a local inn has overstepped his bounds. He was supposed to watch over one of the entrances to our cave system, but now seeks to extort more coin. Terrible isn’t it?”

“Terrible, indeed,” Jacques replied. “I take it you’re using these caves to … relocate things? Luxury items, maybe? Or is it just necessities that are scarce in these troubled times.” 

The man chuckled. “Indeed. Mainly the latter. You have a keen grasp of the situation. A person of your influence would have no trouble convincing him to reopen the passage. Our gratitude would be golden.”

Jacques had heard enough at this point, but baited the man a little further. “I’d like to know who I’m dealing with before I agree.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Names are dangerous in my profession.”

Jacques persisted. “I insist.”

“Very well. You may call me Drew.” There was a slight hesitation before he named himself, and he was undoubtedly lying.

“Just Drew?” Jacques asked.

“Just Drew,” the man confirmed.

“Very well.” Jacques held out his hand, and when Drew clasped it he drew his other hand back and punched “Drew” in the throat, hearing his windpipe crunch under the force of the blow from his mailed fist. As the man fell to the ground, writhing, he raised his voice. “Just Drew, by your own words you are guilty of hoarding, smuggling and extortion. The sentence is death, executed by my own hand.”

There was a shocked silence, and then a cheer sounded out from somewhere in the crowd of refugees that had gathered outside the walls. He nodded in its general direction and continued on to the gates, leaving the smuggler where he lay. One of the guards was sprinting off, he noticed, probably in search of his commander. 

It took a few seconds for Oghren, Nathaniel and Anders to snap out of it and follow, and he studied their reactions when they did. Oghren was grinning and shaking his head and Anders was looking a bit white in the eyes. Nathaniel’s expression was unreadable.

“Remind me to never ever touch your stuff,” Anders joked when they caught up.

“As long as you leave my dinner alone, I think we’ll be okay,” Jacques replied.

“Heh. I like your style, Commander,” Oghren said.

“I don’t know. It may have been a bit much,” Jacques said, keeping a light-hearted tone.

“Nah. Start out strong, let ‘em know you’ve got balls of steel. Nips trouble in the bud,” Oghren replied.

“You do realize you just painted a target on your back?” Nathaniel asked.

“What, another one? I think that’s at least three now.” Jacques countered, and Nathaniel shook his head.

Just before they reached the gates, they were stopped by one of the guardsmen.

“Um, excuse me, but I’m supposed to, er, search everyone who, well, who comes into the city,” the man stammered. “For smuggled goods?” he finished, voice rising almost to a squeak.

Jacques’ eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Oghren growled. “Are you daft, man? This is the Commander of the Grey. And did you see the smear he just made of that smuggling fool out there?”

“I’m really sorry, but Captain’s orders are …” The man was cut off when another guardsman approached, an officer from the look of him. 

“Guardsman! What do you think you’re doing!” the man snapped.

“But ser, I was just … “ the guardsman trailed off.

“Dismissed!” He scuttled off, grateful.

“My apologies, Commander. We’ve been having problems with smugglers, as I’ve been told you already discovered.” He looked behind them and Jacques turned, following his gaze. Just Drew had finally stopped twitching, and a few of the more intrepid refugees were in the process of stripping his corpse.

“If there’s any way I can help?” Jacques offered.

“Of course! If you’ll see Constable Aiden, he can let you know what we need.”

With that, they passed through the gates. It’d been late afternoon when they reached the city, so Jacques decided to put business off until the next day. Mistress Woolsey had directed him to the Crown and Lion. That was where the Wardens had stayed the most often when visiting Amaranthine, she said. Arl Howe had maintained a home inside the city walls, but she’d insisted it was more cost effective to use inns than maintain a staff and pay for upkeep on a building that was rarely occupied, and so the former arl’s estate was being rented out. Probably a good thing, Jacques decided. No need to stoke Nathaniel’s resentment with another reminder of what his father had lost for their family.

The innkeeper had keep Kristoff’s room for him, even though he’d been gone for several weeks, saying it was paid through the end of the month. He yielded the key, and sent up dinner while they went through his notes. Kristoff had pinned a map to the wall and marked off locations as he’d scouted them. There was a circle around a place called the Blackmarsh. 

“Oh, that’s not ominous,” Anders said. “Absolutely nothing could go wrong in a place with a name like that.”

“My father used to tell me stories about the Blackmarsh when I was young,” Nathaniel volunteered. “He said evil magic killed everyone there. This was before the rebellion – a great mystery at the time.”

“Yer father told you stories?” Oghren asked, and grunted when Anders elbowed him. Luckily Nathaniel ignored the dig.

“What evil magic could have caused something like that?” Jacques wondered.

“They never found out what happened. Monsters started to appear, and the town was abandoned.”

“What kind of monsters?” Jacques asked.

“Shades and demons, mostly. There were rumors of werewolves, but no one ever returned to confirm them,” Nathaniel replied.

“Oh, goodie. Can we not go there, please?” Anders asked.

“At this point, since the monster list doesn’t include darkspawn, it’s low on our list,” Jacques replied, and Anders’ expression of relief was comical. He thought about mentioning that the Knotwood Hills would be their first stop, as that was the most promising lead, but kept silent. He was still half expecting Anders to disappear when his back was turned. The mage had nothing holding him here, unlike Nathaniel and Oghren, both of whom had volunteered to join the Wardens.

Oghren had wandered off when they were talking, and they found him down in the common room, already at the bottom of a pitcher of ale. Since Kristoff’s room was already paid for, Jacques opted to use it himself. The innkeeper only had one more room available that night, and he booked that as well. He considered, pulling out a coin and tossing it to Nathaniel.

“What is this for?” Nathaniel asked.

“It’s for the two of you to flip. Loser gets to bunk with Oghren,” Jacques replied, and left them to work it out while he got his own tankard of ale.

His heart gave a lurch when Anders lost the toss, and he gave himself a stern internal talking-to. Anders went to toss the coin back and Jacques shook his head, pointing at the bar instead. With the noises that Oghren made when he was awake, it was a sure bet that he snored too. Anders would probably need alcohol to help him sleep through it.

He decided to retire after only the one tankard, and gave the bartender enough for another round when he left. 

The fireplace had been laid and he set it alight, stripping out of his armor and boots. There was only one bed in the room, and as usual the mattress was too short to accommodate his length, so he spread out his bedroll in front of the fire. As he settled into the room, he collected Kristoff's personal belongings, stowing them in the missing Warden’s trunk. A light coating of dust covered the mantel and desk, reminding him of how long the Warden had been gone. After so much time, he was most likely dead. That put the count of missing Wardens at eight, and four dead.

He hadn’t had a moment to think about it since arriving at the keep, but now it hit him. These men and women had been his comrades, and some he counted among his friends. His desire for sleep deserted him and for the first time in weeks, he pulled out his most recent journal and pencils and started to draw. 

Garam first, all hair and grin, standing with feet apart, massive axe in his hand. Taeros with his perpetual scowl, crackle of electricity around him. Kristoff, all long lines and angles, except when he saw his wife and everything softened. He didn’t know the others well enough to bring their faces to mind. Most of them had only been Wardens for a year or two, inspired to join because of the Blight. He knew that Kristoff had a wife, and he thought one of the younger ones had a wife or girlfriend that had followed him to Ferelden. When he got back to the keep he’d have to compose a report to send to Orlais. Many of his comrades had no families, or didn’t have contact with them anymore. Being a Warden tended to cut you off from such ties. 

He’d become so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice when Nathaniel entered the room. Whether it was that the man made an effort to move silently, or that his subconscious had decided there was no threat to him, it was still startling when a voice sounded over his shoulder.

“Those are amazing.”

He jumped, and gave thanks that he wasn’t working in inks, for he’d certainly have spilled them.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Nathaniel apologized.

“No harm done,” Jacques replied.

“Who are they, if I may ask?”

He named them off, pointing.

“This is Garam, and this Taeros. They were among the group I traveled with to Ghislain, before I became a Warden. This is Kristoff, whose room we are using,” he said.

“And you did this from memory?” Nathaniel sounded amazed.

“I have a good memory.” He turned to a fresh page and started sketching, not letting himself think of the wisdom of what he was doing, but wanting to see Nathaniel’s reaction as his face took shape on the paper. His memory wasn’t nearly as good as he’d just claimed, for he’d known his previous subjects for years, and yet he found that he was already too familiar with the lines of Nathaniel’s face, not having to look up in reference as he drew. He drew him smiling, the happy expression he remembered from the day before outside the keep, wishing he had his colors with him so he could add just a touch of blue to the eyes.

Nathaniel leaned in closer as he worked, one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the table’s edge. He smelled of leather and smoke and ale, and Jacques’ pulse quickened at his nearness. He continued sketching, adding detail, a hint of braids, the fall of a single piece of hair across Nathaniel’s forehead, a quiver and arrows above his shoulder, clothing him in the Warden armor that had not yet been fitted to him, chain and scale accentuating his lean frame, stopped occasionally to sharpen his point. He’d started big so could only fit a head and torso on the page, but kept adding detail, prolonging the moment for as long as he could. He debated filling in the background, the outbuildings and outer wall of Vigil’s Keep, but decided against it, as his hand was sore and his back as well from hunching over the table for so long. So with reluctance he put the pencil down and straightened, hearing his back crack in protest. 

As he did so, Nathaniel finally realized how close he had been standing and moved to the side, but his attention was still focused on the paper in front of them. He reached out, hesitant, fingers hovering just over the page. “This is almost magic,” he said, and Jacques felt a blush rise in his cheeks.

“Just many long hours of downtime. Until the Blight, we didn’t have much to do except drill, and even during there were many hours where we sat around waiting for the scouts to report back. We each had our hobbies,” Jacques replied.

“Is that a prerequisite for becoming a Warden, then?” Nathaniel asked, and a short laugh escaped Jacques’ lips. “Perhaps I’ll give it a try.” 

And with that Jacques’ throat clenched as he remembered a sunny afternoon, guiding Yves’ hand as he held a pencil, laughing as the resulting drawing turned out to resemble a squash more than a human being. He took a deep breath, and then another, and made himself speak. “I’m going to turn in. You’re welcome to the bed. My legs will hang off the end.” And with that he rose, closing the journal. Nathaniel might have protested if their height difference hadn't been been so obvious, standing as close as they were. 

As Jacques slid into his bedroll, back to the room, he could hear Nathaniel moving about behind him for a bit, the sound of the latch on the door being drawn, and then there was a rustle and a creak as he climbed into bed. The fire was dying down, embers glowing, and Jacques forced himself to concentrate on the flicker of red under white ash, not letting himself think of the laughter of a summer afternoon years past or the warmth of an arm on the back of a chair just minutes before. 

He wasn’t entirely successful at clearing his mind, as he kept hearing Nathaniel stirring behind him. Sleep was eluding them both he thought.

“Commander?” Nathaniel said, softly, as if he thought Jacques might be asleep and didn’t want to disturb him.

Jacques rolled over onto his back. “Yes, Nathaniel?”

“Might I ask a question?” he said, tentative.

“Go ahead,” Jacques said.

“Earlier you said there were at least three targets already painted on your back. I was wondering who you thought was doing this painting?”

Jacques drew in a breath, let it out slowly while he thought about his answer. “Well, there is at least one group plotting against the evil Orlesian who has usurped their arling. That’s one of the things I’ll be investigating while we’re here.” He shifted, plumping the pillow up and lacing his fingers under his head. “And as you said, the smugglers here in Amaranthine will probably be a bit unhappy with me after this morning’s display.” He paused, waited for the next question.

“That’s two. What is the third?”

This was the tricky one. “Well, several people have cautioned me that it is yours.”

Nathaniel made a choked sound, sat upright in the bed. 

“But as I’ve already said, if you had truly wanted me dead I would have never seen the arrow until it sprouted from my chest. If I was truly worried about it, I wouldn’t be here with you here in a locked room. I don't believe you would have risked the Joining on the off chance of getting close enough to kill me in my sleep.” He watched Nathaniel relax, bit by bit, and continued. “And truth be told I’m not all that worried about the other two. I’ve not survived this long by being careless, and at least with the smugglers I plan to root them out before they have a chance to organize against me.”

“What about the nobles then?” Nathaniel asked, settling back down onto the mattress, mirroring Jacques’ position, hands tucked behind his neck.

“I’ll let them give themselves enough rope to hang themselves with,” he replied, projecting confidence into his voice.

Nathaniel managed to put both skepticism and worry into a grunt, the familiar scowl reappearing on his face, and Jacques grinned. “Good night, Nathaniel.”

“Good night, Commander.”

And with that Jacques rolled onto his side again, and resumed staring at the fireplace. The wood was nearly all ash and Nathaniel’s breathing had long ago stilled by the time he finally managed to drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of short, and rather a lot of filler. The plot should start progressing more quickly, I hope!
> 
> Jacques' sketch of Nathaniel was totally inspired by this awesome piece of fan art I found over on DA, except I had to change it so he was smiling in the story:  
> 
> 
> [Nathaniel](http://mezamero.deviantart.com/art/Nathaniel-460958517) by [Mezamero](http://mezamero.deviantart.com/) on [DeviantArt](http://www.deviantart.com)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest single thing I've ever written. I've got part 2 mostly finished, and this story is already over 10K words, and that's all come pouring out in three days. It's been kind of scary, like the story has taken over my body. Cool, but scary.
> 
> I debated whether I should wait until I'd finished the entire thing and publish it all at once, but have obviously decided otherwise, yes?
> 
> Part two should go up within the week. Part three will hopefully follow shortly thereafter. Keep your fingers crossed for me!
> 
> Finally did some [screenshots of Jacques](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/post/133252558723/playing-awakenings-a-bit-today-trying-to-shake), trying to get myself going on his story again.
> 
> Feel free to come say hi over on [tumblr](http://thewightknight.tumblr.com/).


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